Leah Lays London

It began with slobbering kisses, thirty seconds of foreplay while we undressed, thirty seconds of cunnilingus, and uninspired bedroom conversation that featured particularly inept dirty talk.

He reached between my legs and fingered my pussy while twisting a clothespin on my nipple.

He fucked me from behind. He tugged my arms behind my back and pulled me against his groin. The technique wasn’t lousy. He just didn’t last long.

He expressed disappointment at my lack of an orgasm. I bit back the inclination to apologize. I takes me more than three minutes of fucking to come.

He wanted me to masturbate myself. I used the handle of my hairbrush to accomplish this task. He had me sit over his chest as I did, a position of ascendancy that negated any submissive feeling that had been generated from being told to perform. It took ten minutes of penetration, the slide against the G-spot, and direct clitoral stimulation. The climax was small and inconsequential.

Declining another fuck, I made my excuses, dressed, and left after that.

The man sent an e-mail asking for a second meeting. I said no. He sent another. It went into the trash can.

The blog is called So Wrong (the twisted imagination of Elsie). The fiction spans the range of pornography. And it’s good smut.

Let’s take a story at random. As the name suggests, “Dad Quest” is about a woman who fucks her father. The narrator, like others of Elsie’s, makes a point of being self-consciously deviant. With humor, she declares this as her accomplishment.

I sighed involuntarily as he penetrated me. His cock entered my body slowly, steadily, inexorably. It had been rather a long time since I’d had an honest fucking, and no matter what they say, it feels totally different when the guy isn’t wearing a condom. I could feel every texture of his cock as it moved inside me. My own father was fucking me and I was so turned on it ached. I could now officially register myself as a pervert.

She fucks him for a reason that I will leave you to discover. In the progression of the sex, Elsie has an ear for dialogue that’s natural and flowing.

“Do you want to fuck me up the ass?”

“You mean anal sex?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said, wiggling my butt seductively.

“I’ve never done that before…”

“I think you should do it to me now” I told him.

“I’ll be gentle” he said.

“Just fuck my ass” I said.

This is a conversation I have had before. It went more or less as Elsie records. The dropped commas, if they aren’t accidental, speak to the urgency of the demand.

The sex is sexy. Elsie’s skill in constructing images for fucking comprises one of her strengths. It’s what drew me to her in the first place.

He started fucking me, excruciatingly slowly, like a steam engine chugging up to speed. His eyes were narrow slits focused on mine. His thrusts were powerful, they made the bed shake, they made my tits bounce up and down. My cunt was humping back against his cock, meeting his every thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. His breathing was hard and ragged, and so was mine.

The authorial voice has a cleanness to it. The images channel its power. There are moments of grace as well.

My dad’s come was dry on my face and chest, sticking to my shirt and flaking off. The clouds were low and grey and heavy, and it started to rain. The cold drops mixed in with the warm salty tears that ran down my cheeks.

Without effort, I could have chosen any story at all to illustrate these points. The prose isn’t perfect — none of ours is. But the language satisfies as much as it arouses, which is the best that can be said of any of us, we purveyors of prurience.

The stories often contain sex I wouldn’t choose to have in real life. I am equally certain that Elsie wouldn’t choose to have it either. Imagination ought to be more twisted than the moments of our maximal bravery. Elsie writes, and when she does, it’s with an authentic voice.

Wednesday evening: We proceeded to bed almost as soon as I arrived. After we had expended the initial impetus to screw, we prepared our dinner in the nude. I coated the vegetables in my not-so-secret pussy sauce. He spanked my breasts with a wooden spoon and probed the entrance of my cunt with its rounded edge. My asshole: this he stoppered with the cork from the chianti. Amadeo and I took turns on the table. We ate pasta from each other’s bodies and had a messy and splendid time of it. Amadeo took sadistic glee in poking me in sensitive places with the tines of his fork. He applied the serrated edge of the knife over my abdomen. He spilled hot sauce over my pubis. I layered the food over his groin and used fingers and teeth. I nibbled at his foreskin and sucked at the shaft. The wine stained his chest red. For dessert, I had semen in my gelato. He licked ice cream from my pelvis. He did it slowly. Fingertips sweeping over the G-spot, the tongue flicked carefully atop the clit. Tease and misdirection and a knowing touch conspired to leave me soaked, breathless, and precariously positioned on the precipice of orgasm, waiting for a push and the perpendicular descent.

Before coffee in the morning, Amadeo fucked me over the kitchen table. I laid on my back while he stood on his toes and thrust his penis into my cunt. He propped my left foot on his shoulder and licked the sole. His fingers combed through my hair. He gave me his thumb to suck, then smothered my mouth and nose with his palm. The resolute grip of his fingers constricted my throat. I anchored myself with a handhold on his hip while the spillage from my vagina smeared into the nest of his pubis and slicked between our thighs. Amadeo kicked off the wooden chair, and he fucked me harder. Rough paws mauled my tits. I raised an arm above my head and seized the side of the table. I liked having the solidity of oak beneath me, the way the wood vibrated under my weight when Amadeo rammed himself forward and bottomed out and reversed direction. My moans gave accompaniment to the liquid sounds of fuck. He hauled me from the table, up by the buttocks, when he came. The cock spasmed in the throes of his little death. I bore down with my muscles to wrench the semen out of him. Later, I lapped my secretions from the polished wood.

— 2 —

Friday night: I wore an emerald cocktail dress, with a deep V neck that showed cleavage and a halter tie that bared my back. The hem of the skirt landed conservatively two inches above the knee. The mostly rayon fabric hugged tightly to my curves and stretched about my legs when I stepped. It had a lustrous sheen. The occasion was a fundraising soirée for a charity for which a friend from the orchestra works. The conversation bent toward art and music. It was my kind of crowd.

A man in a purple shirt, a sport jacket, and dark blue slacks chatted me up. After the party, we unwound at a champagne bar. Hours after midnight, we checked into a hotel in central London where we had drunken sex. I cannot reconstruct the narrative with any clarity. Scattered images remain. I remember the checker patterned ceiling swimming into and out of focus behind him as he fucked me from above. I remember his head between my thighs and how I compressed the sides of his face in their vice. I remember tracing the tip of my tongue along the veins in his cock before looping a condom over the head. I remember dragging my nails down his arms as he slammed into me from a height. I remember sloppy kisses. I don’t recollect whether he made me come.

— 3 —

Saturday night & most of Sunday: Frank and I had dinner early in the evening at a Lebanese restaurant. From about 9 pm until 2 pm, we spent our waking and sleeping hours installed in my bed. When we commenced, I had an almost fresh box of condoms sitting on the nightstand. Now, the two last condoms in the whole apartment are buried at the bottom of my book bag. One day later, the scent of sex still saturates my pillows and sheets.

Frank took me in every pose. He had me on top. He had me underneath. He had me on my hands and knees. He took my ass from above with my legs suspended in the air. He took it hunched over me from behind. He had my buttocks with my back flush against his chest. When he needed a break to forestall an incipient climax, he paused the fucking to lap at my cunt. In my turn, I sucked him on my knees. I sucked him sitting cross legged on my bed. I sucked him with my head dangling from the side of the mattress. I sucked him pulling the cock backward between his legs after thoroughly devouring his winking anus. It didn’t signify in the least that he ran out of semen long before we had finished. The cock maintained its steel. The balls would shudder and the shaft would twitch. We kept going until it did, and then we repeated.

One of the qualities that makes Frank a gifted lover is his sense of the ebb and flow of sex, the innate knowledge of how to transition and when. He has me rutting on all fours, with his prick prodding my cunt from behind. His fingers stroke each of my flanks, brushing them from the hips to the rise of the breasts. When he penetrates and the cock fills me inside, the hands shift minutely. The heels of his palms press against the undersurface of the breasts. The pads of his thumb and index finger make tiny pincers. He squeezes the nipples and gently draws them out. The face of the thumb feathers over the sensitive nerve endings. The forefinger steadies this movement. The hands then cup the breasts and flatten them against muscle and bone, and he uses this improved leverage to slam my body backward against his groin. Then he raises me upright by wrapping his arms about my shoulders and lifting. At the same time, he sinks down on the mattress into a sitting position, and he lowers me over his penis so that I am squatting on my knees between his legs. After a time, he kisses my neck where it joins with the collar, and he presses his fingers between the shoulder blades to coax me prone on the bed. He extends my legs and blankets me with his body. The cock fucks without interruption. The tempo of sex hasn’t altered though we have cycled through a spectrum of positions. All of them feel different. All of them feel new. No matter how many times we have done this before, the sensation is unique to the moment.

It’s like music. There is a theme in the violins, and then the celli pick up the exact melody one register down, and they pass it on to the winds, who carry it. My lips are at the embouchure. My fingers are floating over the middle keys, and I am listening, and I am watching his baton and timing the entrance, and the harmony stretches itself into me deep down, and I experience it in a way I don’t know how to describe. There aren’t words for this. The music envelops me while I am shaping the notes. It creates me just as I create it. I am somewhere in its core. And I am not alone. I hardly know how I got to this place or where it is I am going next. I remember to breathe and keep on playing.

They lie in the grass, spooned together. They are younger than I am, in their late teens, and a study in contrasts. Of the two, he is the slim and willowy one, a body constructed with a dancer’s build. His hair is ribboned in dreadlocks. He wears a colorful chapeau, an oversized t-shirt, and denim shorts. Her hair is straight, a long and Nordic blonde. She wears a bit of flesh on top of muscle, but it suits her constitution amiably. Her skirt extends to the calves, but it is split and not fully buttoned on the side. The size of her breasts makes her top swell.

We are in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris in the mid-afternoon, on a blanket beneath the shade of a tree. We have baguettes and fruit, chips, hummus, plastic cups, a seven Euro bottle of wine to share.

His foot kisses her shin. His lips kiss her shoulder and her neck. He gathers her top and shucks it up the tummy to just below the rise of her chest. He pours lovemaking into her ear, and she flushes a heated pink.

The girl nestles herself deeper into the bend of the boy’s chest and legs. Her hand reaches over the jut of his hip, and she slips it between his wallet and the inside of his pocket. His hand disappears into her top.

My friends laugh, but I am not paying attention to the conversation. I am watching the two of them, a few meters away, in a spot of sun. The back of his finger wiggles between her cleavage.

Somewhere behind us, a mother scolds her child in French. I focus on the chatter of my friends and join in accented American.

When my look returns to them, her skirt is bunched up. His hand has shifted to the outside of her thigh, where the contact is less blatant than before. The fingers tickle up and down between the line of the muscles. She covers his dusky palm with hers and scratches. His grasp on the smooth, pale skin is passive instead of possessive, though sexual all the same. She curls her bare foot against his and stretches her arm behind her to clasp the back of his head.

I imagine a partial erection stirring in his shorts. It encroaches between the hemispheres of her well shaped buttocks. I picture a threesome on the grass. I want to kiss her and kiss him and tongue them both after they have come.

It is time for us to go, however. Someone passes me the corkscrew I bought at Monoprix. We pack away our belongings.

I glance at the pair of young Parisians as I hoist my bag full of shopping. He whispers breathily, and she giggles. Silently, I wish them the very best of luck.

London basks in the unexpected warmth of the sun in April. The bruises on my rump made me decide Thursday on a loose fitting dress that reached to my ankles. I spent most of the day on my feet. As I didn’t wear panties, I was aware of the air circulating between my legs when I walked. I ate lunch outside in the company of colleagues, graduate students and faculty, and was conscious also of the weight on my buttocks when I sat cross legged on the grass. Because I squirmed so much, I eventually stretched out on my side.

At night, a pulse of sustained horniness throbbed through my cunt.

I called Frank. He was in Oxford and would return to the city on the weekend following this one. We arranged a dinner date.

I cycled through the names and e-mails of previous lovers and wondered which of them would understand an ad hoc booty call with another man’s markings from the night before still visible over my body. I thought of the clarinetist, who I have been meaning to hook up with a second time. I thought of Daniel, the flautist, who I have been with thrice. I rejected both of them as being uncertain prospects. After our meetings, Dr. Williams sends me e-mails urging a new assignation. He writes nearly every week. A dom who pleads and begs attracts me not at all. I liked the dog man quite a bit, but none of the recent hookups from Craigslist appealed enough to inspire an instant sequel.

The roommate was with her fiancé, so I knew I had the apartment to myself for the evening. I went to a pub half a mile away, conveniently located next to a youth hostel. I picked up a boy from Atlanta, who was in London on spring break, and brought him back to my flat. We sat on the sofa, half emptied bottles of beer on the coffee table, and made out. He reached a hand up my dress, where he discovered my naked wet pussy. I told him to take off his clothes and dispatched my own.

“I keep busy,” I said, when he noticed the discoloration on my tits and the bite mark on the lower surface of my right breast.

He nodded.

“We will fuck once, and then you will go.” I didn’t want post-coital company.

His fingers touched over my chest. “Do you have any lingerie?” he asked.

It was an unexpected suggestion, but one to which I acceded. I returned from my bedroom in a black slip that was transparent over my breasts and ended three inches below my cunt in pleated tulle.

I nestled beside him on the sofa and hooked the leg nearer to him between his two. He fucked my pussy with two fingers and rubbed my clit in great circles while I swallowed his tongue and his saliva. My hand stroked the length of the erection, which had a tendency to lift vertically against his groin.

I took a condom from my bag and rolled it over the penis. Bringing my legs to either side of his, I pointed the glans to the opening of my cunt and stretched myself over him.

“Fuck me,” I directed.

While he held me by the waist and raised and lowered his hips, I ran my fingers through the fuzz of hair on his chest. Sinking my head down, I latched my lips to one of his nipples and sucked. The boy clenched his hands over the faces of my thighs, and he shoved off them with his arms and performed a pelvic thrust that rocked his penis inside me. I clamped down. Reaching behind my body, I gripped his balls and massaged them.

The boy’s arms wrapped my back and pulled me against him. He tugged the strap of the slip down one shoulder and lipped across to my neck. His fingers brushed through my hair. I pressed my mouth over his.

The boy laid me horizontal on the sofa. I rotated so that my body slumped into the cushions, and I lifted my legs so they rested against his arms and invited him to occupy the space in between them. The cock bulldozed into my pussy. I braced my feet against his shoulders for a moment, but most of the time, they hung in the air and kicked at the ceiling.

He didn’t last long, that Georgia boy in my cunt. After he had finished spurting into the condom, I laid back against the throw pillow and masturbated myself to an orgasm.

I sent him a text before I left the apartment: I want you to be harsh with me.

Five minutes after he buzzed me up, Amadeo had me naked over his lap. His hand worked methodically over the back of my thighs and my buttocks. Though the skin turned red and raw, he kept going. His hand stung with the effort, so he bit, then switched to a paddle. I lost myself for twenty minutes in the blurry endorphin haze of sexual pain. Afterwards, he placed a sack of frozen vegetables atop my ass. Lying on the sofa, I sucked his cock to thank him for spanking me. He directed his come over my rear and smeared the semen into the inflamed, sensitive to touch, and throbbing skin. Two days later, red and purple splotches still decorate my ass. When I concentrate my attention, the nerve endings smart so delightfully.

Amadeo isn’t the deftest hand in the world with rope. It took him several attempts before he tied my wrists and ankles to the four corners of the small bed in the guest room. Once he had me spread-eagled thus, he sat on the edge of the mattress and read to me from the memoirs of Casanova. He recounted in his bright baritone the story of a Venetian woman abducted from her husband by eight masked men. Amadeo’s was a newer translation, but I looked up the passage on the internet on returning home.

Comforted by that promise, and as gentle as a lamb, she follows us to the “Two Swords.” We ordered a good fire in a private room, and, everything we wanted to eat and to drink having been brought in, we send the waiter away, and remain alone. We take off our masks, and the sight of eight young, healthy faces seems to please the beauty we had so unceremoniously carried off. We soon manage to reconcile her to her fate by the gallantry of our proceedings; encouraged by a good supper and by the stimulus of wine, prepared by our compliments and by a few kisses, she realizes what is in store for her, and does not seem to have any unconquerable objection. Our chief, as a matter of right, claims the privilege of opening the ball; and by dint of sweet words he overcomes the very natural repugnance she feels at consummating the sacrifice in so numerous company. She, doubtless, thinks the offering agreeable, for, when I present myself as the priest appointed to sacrifice a second time to the god of love, she receives me almost with gratitude, and she cannot conceal her joy when she finds out that she is destined to make us all happy. My brother Francois alone exempted himself from paying the tribute, saying that he was ill, the only excuse which could render his refusal valid, for we had established as a law that every member of our society was bound to do whatever was done by the others.

I embellished on what happened to her, and this entertained Amadeo greatly.

He kissed me, his tongue intimate in my mouth. He toyed with my tits, licking the curves of my breasts, nursing at the nipples.

He asked me if I liked Jackson Pollock. The question was incongruous. I am not overly excited by abstract expressionism and indicated as much.

“Too bad. I like him.”

Amadeo produced candles: blue, white, red, and yellow. He lit them and used my chest as a canvas painting the wax in streaks over the hummocks of my breasts and the depression of my belly. He collected the wax in mounds atop the areolae. The candle wax dripped onto my body from a height. The contact on the skin made me gasp, but it did not hurt. He continued the lines lower to my pubis. I asked him to inscribe his initials there, and we agreed that I looked colorful and pretty.

After this artistic interlude, Amadeo attached large black binder clips to each of my nipples, another to my cunt lips, and a pair of smaller ones under each of my arms. He squeezed the pincers, tugged and twisted. Amadeo slapped my breasts.

When I winced and squinched my eyes shut and turned my head away, he yanked hard on my hair. A gob of expectorate landed on my forehead.

“Eyes open, slut. Look at me,” he insisted. The back of his hand cuffed the side of my face. He mangled the nipples by tightening his grip on the binder clips and rotating.

I screamed. My shoulders heaved. The tears spilled over my eyes.

He removed the clip from my cunt. “Count,” he said.

His face hovered over mine. I tasted the whisky on his breath.

He spanked my pubis.

“One,” I announced, eyes meeting his.

The fingertips tightened on the lips and screwed them left and right. He slapped again, and my whole body flinched.

“Two.”

Though my eyes swam out of focus, I kept them open and directed at my lover’s face.

I counted the slaps to twenty. At the end, I shrieked the numbers out. He took huge swings and followed through on the movement of his arms. Between the blows, he fingered the pussy and tweaked the six clips, contorting especially the big ones on my tits. When he removed the binder clips after the spanking, my underarms felt like they had been stung by bees. Blood filled the pinched nipples. His teeth snapped one up, and he flicked the roof with his tongue. The nerves sang.

I laughed uncontrollably. Sweat and tears had made my makeup run. My nose was watery. My throat was parched. I asked for a drink to rehydrate myself. Amadeo straddled my head and lowered his penis to my lips. The urine whispered out in the dim light. He controlled the release of his bladder so that I could swallow it down. The scent of the ammonia made my nostrils flare. The piss was hot in my mouth, acutely salty, but otherwise without taste.

“I will spank you again if you spill,” he warned.

Listening to the hiss, I raised my head and gulped to keep pace with the flow.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a good girl.” He chased his pee with his tongue.

He let me suck his cock to hardness and then pressed the underside of the shaft against the entrance of my pussy. The glans lifted nearly to my belly.

“Condom,” I warned.

He sheathed himself, and then he fucked me. The movements of his pelvis made my blistered ass sink into the sheets of the bed and ride up. It was all pain, and then it was all pleasure. My hands and my feet contended with the bonds, which tightened the knots and reduced the give of the rope. The impact of his chest against my body flattened my breasts. I bit his shoulder.

Toyed with as I had been for over an hour, I was close to orgasm, and he knew it. “Ask for permission to come,” Amadeo demanded.

I asked, and he refused. I begged, and he said no. I spit in his face, and he bit my lip, laughed, and said no again. The penis jabbed into me harder. I crushed the vaginal muscles about the shaft when it filled me and held myself at bay.

“I am going to slap your face three times. You can come after that,” he said. His hand squeezed a bruised breast.

I lost control, gushing around his shaft. The ejaculate flooded from me and drenched the sheets. The walls of the vagina went into spasms. The orgasm seemed to begin deep inside my belly and radiated to my extremities. I wrenched at the ropes that tied me to the four corners of the bed. The solid oak posters vibrated. The bed rocked slightly to the side. The wetness that emanated from my cunt left our thighs sticky. The scents of sex, sweat and pussy, enveloped our bodies like a thick fog. Through this veil, all I could see was him. My cheeks burned.

Amadeo held himself within, rigid and unmoving through the orgasm. When I finished, he recommenced the pumping movement of his hips, pushing off with his arms on the bed and thrusting down. My cunt went into new convulsions, the tremors now fluid, one orgasm trembling into the next. Amadeo could not hold out for long. His back arched. His cock twitched inside. His body crumpled on top of me.

When his breathing had equilibrated to merely ragged, he extracted his soft-hard penis, and he sat next to me, and he fingered my cunt, and he kissed me. Eventually, he undid the bonds. While I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, flaking the wax from my skin, he returned from the kitchen with tall glasses of juice. I stripped the sheets, and then we proceeded to the big bedroom, where Amadeo read to me some more. He ate my pussy to orgasm, and after that we slept.

I don’t have a blogroll, though I should. It’s one of the many things I haven’t gotten around to doing. In place of a list on the side, I will periodically write about my favorite sex bloggers.

One site I discovered recently belongs to Margot la Ravaudeuse. The prose is sexy and revealing. She has a knack for remembering details and incorporating them into her stories. The details build on top of each other. Her latest post includes the following.

• He always drove with a hand on my thigh, and I normally [had] mine folded on top of his.

• His hand crept up my thigh to the edge of my panties as I told him that I always wanted to fuck outside in broad daylight, and that I had never done it and was sad that I probably never would. As he traced the crease between my vulva and my inner thigh, I moved my hand over to his lap to discover a growing hardness.

• Simon pinched my thigh, and ran his hand under my wet panties. I rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Why don’t we stop here?” I pulled my panties down and off my ankles and over my sandal-covered feet.

The sex develops organically, with the conversation, with the ideas, with the closely observed, faithfully repeated particulars of the touches. The fucking itself is hot, on the metal hood of the green sedan. At the end of it, she tells: I was quickly panting and crying out, with my pussy squeezing him harder and leaking all over our hips. Simon stepped back and pulled out of me, and promptly came in ropes from my pubis to my sternum. He leaned over me for an instant; panting, sweating, and glowing. This isn’t really the end though. For that, you will have to visit the wildlife preserve.

Reading Margot, I can’t help but recollect my first time outside, by a small lake in an obscure state park, on a Tuesday afternoon when a friend and I played hooky from school. Travel back with me in time and memory. See a girl unclothed in the untamed grass. See a boy — see a man — equally nude and on his knees behind her.

The sun beats down, leaving my naked skin swimming in perspiration. The dirt paints my forearms and legs a deep chestnut brown. I have the smell of grass in my nostrils. I like the weight of the man on my back, how he clutches my breasts and uses them for purchase as he rides. I am the mare that he mounts. My hair whips laterally as the trot becomes a canter. He grabs hold of my shoulder. The cock reaches farther within. My back arches up. My head is thrown back, my throat exposed. I whinny at the pleasure of it. He fucks me faster. The canter becomes a gallop. I feel it in my thighs. Sweat plasters the locks to my forehead. I gnash my teeth. I bolt forward, barely restrained by the reins that he commands. He smacks my ass, causing me to neigh. He asks for more, and I give it. Blue sky whirling above, we are alone and racing hard to orgasm.

In his second e-mail, he sent a photograph of a buttplug that ended in a ten inch dog’s tail. He wanted me to be his dog girl. The scenario amused me far more than it turned me on, but I agreed to meet him for a cocktail Sunday evening and conversation. He was a charming man, a business professional, who was fully candid and disarming about his kink. We strolled through a park, both of us on our two feet. In a small copse of trees, he pressed his hands to my cheeks and kissed me. The touch of his lips over mine was tender and gentle. We negotiated play without the silicone tail.

Inside the apartment, he changed into a terry cloth bathrobe, and I stripped to my thigh high black stockings. He fastened a collar around my neck and attached a metal chain, and then I padded behind him on hands and knees while he took me for a walk through the apartment. While he sat in the arm chair, I crawled back to the bedroom to fetch his slippers and curled myself at his feet. He stroked my back. His fingers ruffled my hair and worked thoroughly over my scalp. He scratched behind the ears and then had me play fetch with a red chew toy. I nosed at his feet, kissed the tendons on top, tongued the ankle.

Drawing apart the bathrobe, I stuck out my tongue and pretended to salivate at the prospect of placing his stiff penis in my mouth. He had me lick his balls first, as dogs are wont to do, and then he pressed the glans to my lips. I was on my knees, with my hands resting on his thighs, while I fellated him. The soft tug of the lead told me when he wanted me to go faster and when he wanted me to slow down. His moans showed me what he liked. The blowjob lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, and I touched myself while I pleasured him. His semen tasted salty and pure.

As it was dark, he turned off the lights in the apartment and took me onto the balcony, naked, where he poured water for me in a dog bowl, and looped the lead around the railing at the edge. He set out food as well, but as this wasn’t my kink, I laughed and shook my head, no; he didn’t press.

Once he had regained his erection, we went indoors and fucked. He took me doggy style, of course. His hand wrapped the chain, and he tugged on the lead fiercely, as though controlling an unruly canine. The chain went around my shoulder, so that the jerk on my neck wasn’t too pronounced — evidently, he had given this fantasy some thought, or had previous experience. He had me bark and woof, which I did amid the guffaws. The man was almost as amused by the absurdity of the situation as I was, which was the only reason that any of this worked.

Elbows buckling to the ground, I moaned on his living room carpet while the erection sliced through the waters of my cunt. In it went the whole way, and back out again nearly to the tip. He slapped my ass cheeks and made me sweat. I scratched at the carpet and, on my own, howled while he fucked me. He lasted about ten minutes in my pussy before he came.

As I was cleaning up in the bathroom, an idea occurred to me suddenly. I summoned the man to join me and crawled into the tub, where I raised one leg and peed. He stood transfixed. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this. The erection grew to prominence before my face.

He raised a bath and insisted on washing me up. I peeled the stockings off and returned to the tub, where he took a soapy sponge and wiped every square inch of my body. His attention concentrated on the most sensitive bits. After that, I had a boner to gnaw on.

His fantasy was to have sex on the stairs of his apartment building. As I get off on fucking in public, the idea intrigued me. We met for a drink at his local, which was conveniently located across from the tube station, and then, once I had determined that his looks and his personality passed muster, we walked parallel to the main road until we reached his place three and a half blocks away. I followed him into the lobby of the post-war building, and we stepped into the elevator. He told me that he lived on the seventh floor. I hit the number five, and we got off there instead. The stairway was accessed through a sturdy wooden fire door to the left side of the elevator. On entering, I scanned the ceilings and the walls for CCTV cameras and did not see any.

He unfastened his belt and brought his trousers down. I went to my knees on the concrete floor and brushed my lips against the cock until it attained a state of adamantine hardness. Holding the base of the shaft, I bobbed my head over him. The man’s fingers twisted in my hair while I sucked. Leaning his weight against the wall at his rear, he pressed his hand commandingly at the back of my head and forced me to take his glans into my throat. Once I had accomplished this feat, he responded by jabbing the cock at me with a movement of the pelvis that kept three-quarters of the shaft contained in my mouth. The penis glistened with spit and my chin was sticky when he brought me to air again. I smiled up at him and mouthed his heavy scrotum.

While I stripped from the waist, he sat in the middle of the flight of stairs and stroked his phallus. Extracting a condom from the pocket of my jeans, I threw it to him, and he rolled it onto the shaft. Clutching the cylindrical steel railings along the side of the stairway for support, I straddled his body, which had inclined backward against the unforgiving stone. The pussy lips stretched about the shaft and made a taut ring at the base when I had completed my slow descent. The walls of the vagina remained tight inside. As I bounced myself over the man, he launched himself up to meet me halfway. The thighs made violent slapping noises when our bodies collided.

Because of the angle, the penis kept falling out and having to be replaced. So we switched positions. Feet planted two stairs apart, I gripped the banister. Grabbing hold of my breasts through my loose fitting shirt, he took my cunt from behind. The groin slammed against my buttocks when his cock bottomed out, and the balls followed with a softer clap. The sounds of sex, the moans and grunts, my demands to be fucked harder, and how he named me cunt — these all echoed in the stairwell.

On the landing, where the stairs turned ninety degrees, I went to hands and knees. He positioned my shins far apart and knelt in the space between them. Gripping me by the waist, he fucked my pussy with punishing severity. The cock entered and thrust with velocity. Pistoning in and out, he used the shaft as a hammer inside my cunt.

My hands rested crosswise under my head. The curtain of hair swung wildly as he fucked. He gripped the bottom of my shirt and dragged my body backward against his prick. We must have continued this way for ten minutes, silent except for fuck and pleasure. We kept going until I let out a loud wail and shattered expressively in that empty stairwell.

After that, he lay on the landing, and I mounted the penis again. My hands pushed off the floor, and, compressing most of his shaft within, I raised and lowered my pussy over the bottom part of the cock, adding twist and torque with a movement of my hips and buttocks. Bracing one hand against the wall, I ramped up in turn the intensity and the tempo of the sex and fucked the penis in my pussy harder and faster. I sucked on his fingers while I wrung myself about the cock and persisted in this ferocious grind. I wanted his orgasm, and he gave it to me, his arms wrapping my back and hunching my body over his as the rocket cock blasted off at last. We shared our first and only kisses as he was coming in my cunt.

I am by no means over the ex-boyfriend, but it’s time for me to move on. I am satisfied that the drought ended last night. He wasn’t the unicorn of myth, but the sex left me sated. I feel more human, more happy, more feminine, more a woman for having indulged in a one night stand. My muscles have the agreeable soreness of a recent fuck. It is almost better that the man is nearly anonymous to me. I close my eyes and picture his face easily now: the buzz cut, the set of his jaw, the big bones of his cheeks, those thin red lips. Soon this memory will recede. He is just one more man I have screwed. His cock was as thick as my wrist.

I posted the following casual encounters ad twice and received 79 replies before the inevitable flagging. One of the men recognized my voice from the blog and offered his good wishes.

Rebound – w4m
I am an American woman in London who is 25 years old. I got out of a long distance relationship recently. My pussy hasn’t had a cock in what, for me, is an unusually long time. I will be exceptionally tight for my next guy. The others will have fun, too. I am looking for casual sex and lots of it. As I am submissive in bed, I am in search of attractive, intelligent, highly sexual, dominant men.

To start, I wonder if there is a fantasy that has been bouncing around inside your cranium for years. It’s something you deeply desire, but you have never found the right partner or the right moment. Tell me about it. Be specific! I am chasing the odd and the perverse; kink is good.

In your reply, please include a clear pic of face and body. No photos of erections please! I have seen them and know how they look. If both you and the scenario appeal, I will be in touch. Ideally, we would meet up this weekend or during the week ahead. I prefer if you can host in Zone 1.

I am consistently astonished by how many men can’t or won’t follow simple instructions. As well, a dearth of imagination that harmonizes with my own kinks vexes and perplexes me. Still, a couple of candidates have emerged. I hope for amazing sex in the days ahead.